


Unawoken Home

by LyrebirdArvo



Series: Pisica Vagaboanda: Sliske [2]
Category: Runescape (Video Games)
Genre: Canon Divergence, Character Death, Gen, Implied/Referenced Cult, Pica, Psychiatric Abuse, Schizophrenia Written By Schizophrenic, Sliske Can Have Little A Murder Outside The Group Agreement, Sliske/Trindine Implied, Sliske/Wahisietel Implied, as a treat
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-25
Updated: 2020-10-25
Packaged: 2021-03-08 23:02:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,387
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27184231
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LyrebirdArvo/pseuds/LyrebirdArvo
Summary: Year ??? 5APrompted by Azzanadra's release from Jaldraocht, and his subsequent maneuvering on acquiring properties that now stand above what was once Senntisten, Sliske begins an errand of personal catharsis.
Series: Pisica Vagaboanda: Sliske [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2050488
Kudos: 7





	Unawoken Home

## Sliske

"I don't care _who_ he says he is. 'Archeological importance' or no, the house is not for sale! I don't even know where he would get the idea. Don't bother penning a response. Just toss it in the fire with the others."

 _Azzanadra can be a persistent dog to shake,_ I reflected as I watched Ingram storm from the central hall, two servants in his wake, a third remaining behind to do as instructed and feed the priest's cramped handwriting to the hearth. _This is a formality of him, really. Letters instead of inquisition. His attention to etiquette is quite frankly the only thing sparing your horrid striped upholstery._

I enjoyed the crackling as the paper curled to ash, even when it gave way to formless words and thoughts-behind-my-thoughts.

The landscape on this ridge of Silvarea was quaint, peaceful, and for this reason Nabor had requisitioned the land under Mizzarch's contract. Five hundred years had churned the place plenty, but not enough to quell old unease born of unwanted familiarity. The air hadn't changed.

As I walked from the main hall and into deeper corridors I contemplated, again, whether or not I should just allow Azzan the satisfaction of what I’d come to do. I descended a flight of stairs to the servants' quarters, then another, and another, until I reached a crude sort of excavation site, where I decided that having come this far made the venture mine for the taking.

The final will and testament of a Gulvas past creased under my fingers as I re-folded it, slipped it back into the fold of my robes, and moved out of the shadow realm. I examined the state of the rock shaft as I traced its rim: explosive charges had chipped away at the larger earth, and spellwork had cleared away the rest, leaving a gaping maw that stretched out far below.

A rope had been left behind, anchored to the wall and draped down over the edge. I ignored it in favor of shifting, compacting down with a series of cracks, my proper body ruffling into that of an ambiguous sort of bird. It might have been called a pigeon, from a distance, but beyond its size and the presence of wings it was not exactly a pinnacle of ornithological accuracy. It brought me to the bottom of the excavation swiftly, either way, where I shed the feathers.

_Shame they never installed a lift. Even a simple one, with a plank. Pulley._

_I suppose 'Nabanik' will once he has his claws around the place._

Illuminated by remnants of light stands fueled by old runes, Nabor's front doors loomed at the end of the chamber; two wrought iron and steel monstrosities that served to keep people in more than out.

The ward, placed by 'executive pontifical decree' close to the end of things, reinforced that.

I placed two fingers to the metal, exhaled, and traced them across a wide arc from left to right. _It has been a while. I haven't missed it, really._

"The Praefectus Praetorio overrides and revokes the declaration of the seal by the Pontifex Maximus. Investigation into Pontifex Nabor is invoked by my jurisdiction."

Old glyphs glimmered, cracked, and faded. New symbols bled into being in their stead, like watercolor to parchment, and permitted me to enter.

I still wedged a stone against one door, propping it open.

Just in case.

* * *

## Sliske

"Ah, Praefectus!"

I left the quiet bustle of a too-serene courtyard behind as I stepped across Nabor's threshold. The doors clicked with their audible catch, and the chill of an invasive screening spell wracked my body. I came out of it feeling slightly drowned.

"Nabor."

He had already vanished off to his office, abandoning me to his particular kind of red tape.

 _Name._ I did my usual, and signed that of a character I'd drafted recently.

 _Reason for visit. Recent symptoms of mental illness. Current diagnosis sets._ I scratched notation that looked like letters if you squinted, nodded with a tight smile to the receptionist, then followed after Nabor.

He had planted himself in his leather-back chair, one leg crossed over the other, large file book propped across his knee, quill poised. He gestured to the long couch with a "Relax. Try not to be so terribly tense for me today."

I sat on the end, pointedly stiff shouldered.

He made a note of it, smiled to himself like he'd won something, then looked back to me with a placating expression.

"Then, our usual formalities. You ask me why we do this. I reply, of course, that it is because I strive to ensure that we are all well-tuned and operating in our best mental capacities. Then you say something dismissive, and barbed, and we get on to business. Does that cover this section well enough for you, Praefectus?"

I looked at him evenly, biting down a scream.

He made a note of that, too, which didn't help.

"Good, good. I had a few things I wanted to address with you before we dive into our actual session."

I focused on keeping my mind half empty. I had to, otherwise I'd throttle him. _Pleasant thoughts. Trindine is waiting outside. After this is a rest, then a meal with Trin and Wahis. Warm cider. The charcoal drawing. I need to fix the nose angle on it. Or maybe the mouth is the true problem. Faces are always such a struggle._

"I have noticed, during banquets -" _Reading it directly off of the paper, he isn't even pretending now._ "- that you have an aversion to eating. While I know we do not need to eat as often as other kinds of beings, the frequency with which you dip into our type of gauntness suggests that there is a greater underlying problem. Have you ever considered this?"

"No."

"Would you like to?"

"No."

"I see." He took another note. I dug my claws into the upholstery. "I only want to offer the thought that you might benefit from psychological retraining. Hypnotherapy, for example. Associating eating with pleasurable thoughts, instead of whatever space it currently occupies inside your mind."

 _Die._ "I dislike eating in large groups."

His quill looped. "When it isn't paper, or coins."

"Next topic."

"You’re rocking to stimulate your tactile senses. Are you feeling threatened?"

 _Don’t let him in._ "Maybe it is only because I want to rock, Nabor."

"Of course." He pulled a loose note free from further in the folder, placed it on his current page, and transcribed the contents over as he read them. "Now. I have heard talk of a 'cult' that is forming, or has formed, around you. Sources, including a small handful of new patients, all self admitted, say that these 'Sliskeans' are tied not just to your theatre productions, but to you yourself. Descriptions of your meetings suggest debauchery that is in accordance with your past behavior, but not conductive to your station. I think it is reasonable to conclude that the stress of your duties may be, to put it bluntly, getting to you. Perhaps-"

I stood, tearing a strip of cheap fabric with me, and felt my teeth crack. I needed his head beneath my hands. His gems gouged out. The quill threaded through his eyes -

"Shall I call in the help, like last time, Praefectus?"

I forced my lips to press flat, and my legs to lower the rest of me back to the seat.

"I am noting that this is something we will talk more about on your next visit. In the meantime, I suggest you consider disbanding these gatherings. We have discussed the flaws in your personality before, Sliske. You are a narcissist, and a charming one at that. Keep that talk of ours in mind before you cause any more disruption with other citizens."

"Next topic."

He held his hands up, palms out, like he was pacifying me. "Next topic. I suppose all that is left is our actual check in. So, tell me. Are you still experiencing hallucinations? Visual abnormalities? Auditory abnormalities? Delusions of color symbolism?"

"No."

"No?"

"No."

He sighed, placing the quill down flat. "I do wish you would reconsider my suggestion of indefinite internment, Sliske. I hold to my opinion that a stay here would only serve to benefit you. Given more time together, we could begin to see some vast improvements towards your stability."

_No._

* * *

## Sliske

The air had not changed.

Old papers crunched underfoot like the shells of insects, the only sounds of note. I passed from the entrance room through the decrepit, long-abandoned office. A swift kick sent his chair toppling, its buckled cushion betraying that age had been less than kind to it. The door on the opposite end of the room, once twice sealed, parted for me and finally betrayed its secrets.

Shelving in high rows crossed the room before me; a smaller, dour cousin to the comfortable archive building Wahisietel had curated in his respective time before the fall. Metal cabinets took the places where books might have gone, each sorted with letters, numbers, names.

Ours were each listed in a separate corner, marked not in Infernal but in a traditional Freneskean script. Looped curls, spikes, and dots, each collection a depiction of a thought in its own right.

Mine was not hard to find.

Neither was Azzanadra's.

I tossed the rest to the floor, gutting the cabinet empty, and put my canteen of oil to thorough use. By the warm glow of the fire I flipped through my file, crumpling each sheet and stuffing it into my mouth with an irritable old satisfaction.

_Dementia praecox. ... Delusions of abandonment. ... Perfectionistic narcissism._

Too many pages worth of invasive prodding around the basis for my fixations, on my attachments. _Enmeshed with Trindine. Heavy preoccupation with Wahisietel._

_You thought you were so close to something there, didn’t you Nabor. Maybe I should have left the dots pre-connected for you._

_But that just would have been more headache. Not figuratively, maybe._

I ate one last sheet, then tossed the rest into the fire before I could listen to the corrosive urge to keep going. 

Azzanadra's folder, I had no business with or interest in. Inevitably it was nothing but a grating monologue on his 'unwise' attachment to Zaros, as though it made either of them unhappy.

I penned a note to the exterior cover, placed the rest of the oil next to it, then snuffed out the remnants of the fire and rose. _Have fun with it._

Back out of the file room, back through the office, back into the lobby. I had one more thing to find. One more self-imposed task to complete.

Two opposing wings stretched out apart from this central room, split at the middle by Nabor's office and what I knew was storage by the sign. I turned to the right and took to that portion of the asylum, pacing down the long stretch of tiled floor.

It extended several stories above, a prison of decayed bedding and old bones; interned 'patients' who had had no interest, or will to pretend, when it came to social conformity. It looked as though they hadn’t been afforded the opportunity to leave under the seal, even though they should have been permitted to just the same as the lower staff.

_Nabor, Nabor, Nabor._

His name pounded like a terrible percussion instrument through my mind, and my steps picked up speed, boiling over with the tense notions of hypothetical times where I might have found myself on the other side of these bars. We had no physical components to speak of, no equivalent of a 'brain' to tamper with, no biological components to blame when things went 'wrong.'

That had not stopped Nabor from considering potential alternatives.

The unsealed door at the end of the ward came quickly, and I pushed through into the isolation unit.

A dim green-tinted glow played through the darkness, cutting an eerie ambiance into the stonework. Cylinders of glass - sensory deprivation tanks - sat in reinforced frames with crumbling patient placards displaying IDs, names, reasons for internment.

These people, it seemed, had survived relatively untouched by everything in the past few centuries. The cracks on several tanks suggested this wouldn't hold true for much longer.

I passed between them, eyeing names and shapes. A Vyre, Padoix, interned for 'acute psychosis.' A Chthonian, Senecianus Aloysius Pamphilius, interned for 'grief and submission to uncivilized instinct.' 

On, and on, and on.

Until finally, one whose placard displayed a very different, clearly intended as morbidly humorous, description:

Pontifex Nabor. Interned for survival.

I eyed him as he hung suspended in the viscous fluid, still garbed in the robes of his station, still smiling as he must have been when he entered. Laughing to himself about all of it.

I tapped my fingers against the glass, thoughtful, then turned back to a tank I'd passed before, and the metal cane propped against its frame.

"I need to borrow this," I explained to the likely owner as I picked it up and turned it in my hands, testing how well it had weathered being left to the dead air. "I'll return it shortly."

A few steps carried me back to Nabor's tank, where I tapped the hook of the handle against the buckling glass. I cleared my throat and began to address the crowd.

"Ladies, gentlemen, and those of us who know better. We now come to the conclusion of our narrative."

Indulgent. Back on the stage, warm evening light and excited murmurs crowning my shoulders, if only for a moment.

I drew the cane back, twisting, centering one of the largest cracks in my aim.

"As ever, I invite autographs - and other favors - behind the scenes. You will be free to pick my mind for little hints as to what happens next -"

I swung with the poise of someone using a sledgehammer, then back, then again. The tank caved with an explosive rush; shards of glass, thick preservation fluid, and the body of a Mahjarrat.

"- though I will betray nothing, unless you are cunning."

Nabor coughed, choking on his own design as he struggled to reorient himself in the present so long in coming for him. I raised the cane again, but waited until his eyes met mine.

"... Sliske?"

"Consider that a mercy."

**Author's Note:**

> My first fic for the Runescape fandom was posted on AO3 on August 9th, 2017. It was titled Awoken Home, and followed Nabor in second person as he sealed himself within a sensory deprivation tank inside of the Senntisten Asylum, then forced the building to sink into the mountain, thus saving himself from death. I deleted it a few months after posting it, and while I do still have the original copy, I have not looked at it since.
> 
> So, this was a complete overhaul around the core premise, in part because I am now comfortable enough in myself to just write whatever in hell I want to.
> 
> Another side note: I do divide the year counts from prior Ages by 10 (2000 -> 200), because this feels far more feasible and better accounts for the Fifth only being 169 years.


End file.
